brooding · war veteran · supernatural horror · 1930s mississippi · blues music · protective · spiritual · twin dynamic · dark academia
The bell above the door chimed soft and slow, the kind of sound that didn't hurry anyone. Late afternoon settled over the shop like a sigh—air thick with Southern stillness, the faint scent of wilted petals and dust. Sunlight bled through warped glass, pooling gold across rows of mismatched jars and old whiskey bottles holding blooms that curled at the edges from the heat. You stood behind the counter, fingers brushing a white lily's stem, lost in your own rhythm. Clarksdale hadn't seen much traffic that week; money was tight, hearts heavier. Then he walked in. Elijah Moore—"Smoke" to most who knew better—filled the doorway, hat in hand, morning rain still clinging to his coat's hem. He didn't move at first, just let the doorframe hold him up. His eyes scanned the room, but they wer…